


No Redemption for Sinners

by alien_lord



Series: John Murphy (The 100) [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Crying, Depression, Father Figure, Gen, Heart Break, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, Mental Breakdown, Misery, Regret, Sobbing, Whump, tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 03:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14968013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alien_lord/pseuds/alien_lord
Summary: John Murphy is trapped, and can't escape after looking for the city of light with Jaha. He begins to think of his sins, and what he should have done.   (Set in Season 3, don't read if it's spoilers. A different ending then in the show).





	No Redemption for Sinners

John Murphy was used o being alone. His whole life had been a mixture of abandonment, both on purpose and because of other issues. His parents had abandoned him, all of his friends, his people (when he was sent to the Earth to die), and his people again when he was banished from the camp of survivors on the ground. Later, they’d taken him back, but he didn’t feel welcome. He’d set off on his own with Jaha, to find the city of light, and Jaha had become a paternal figure to him. 

He’d never had a positive male role model before and he didn’t know how it was supposed to work. His father had died when he was a boy, but he imagined he might be something like what Jaha was to him now. For all of Jaha’s faults, he did his best to protect the boy. “You’re a survivor, John.” Jaha would tell him, “Just keep surviving.” How he wished Jaha would choke on those words right now. He wished Jaha was here so that he could wrap his hands around his throat. “Where’s your promised land now?” He wanted to scream. 

He intended to do just that. So when Jaha too abandoned him, left him behind, locked in the enclosed room. John Murphy had never felt so abandoned in his life. It was a feeling he was used to, and he shouldn’t have been surprised, but something about this, after all of the other ones, finally broke him.   
Trapped with his own thoughts, with no one else to talk to, or even see, Murphy lost his mind. 

It didn’t happen all at once, and it was gradual at first. The first week or two wasn’t so bad, after about seven days it started to bother him, and he started trying harder to escape. After ten days, he’d started panicking, screaming and yelling, trying to make someone, anyone, hear him. Who would hear him? He didn’t know but he kept trying.   
After fourteen days, he’d started crying. It was sudden, and body wracking, and he cried for the first time in years. He didn’t want to die in here, he didn’t want to die alone. It was no use, no matter what he did he couldn’t get free of the confines of the room. There was nowhere to go. 

After thirty days he didn’t cry anymore. What was the point? He’d lost the energy to cry about it, he knew his only hope was someone stumbling on him. He watched the videos of the AI and the man who killed himself, and started watching them over and over, trying to catch something that would help him escape. He’d hit the walls with every took he could find, even broke apart furniture to try and fasten some sort of weapon together to pry the walls apart. 

He missed his friends, especially Bellamy. As much as he hated that pompous asshole sometimes, he really missed hearing his calm, and reassuring voice. Bellamy always knew what to say, and he was a calm controlling force of Murphy’s rash personality. He missed his friend’s energy, and he even missed Clarke a little bit. He missed everything, and he wished that he’d never decided to trust Jaha and leave the camp with him and the others. Even being ignored and cast aside was better than dying here alone. 

After forty five days he’d watched all of the videos left behind, and watched them again. He started to remember the lines word for word, so he started slowing them down to try and catch something in the background. There wasn’t anything he noticed that would help him escape. He thought back to his early days at camp and wished he’d treated the others nicer, maybe someone would be trying to look for him right now. 

After sixty days, he’d started writing out lists, of things he wished he’d done better, things that he wished he’d said to other people, and what he would have done better. He thought back to when he was harassing the other survivors, and specifically when he peed on one of them. He would do anything to go back in me and change what he’d done.   
He specifically wished he’d told Bellamy that he forgave him for the hanging, and that he appreciated him being his friend. He drank until he couldn’t stand, and the ground gave out under him, and he laid on the floor and wept. 

He thought he heard people talking to him, and he had full conversations with the other survivors he thought were there with him. He screamed at Jaha, and threw anything he could get his hands on, and he begged Bellamy to kill him. Why hadn’t he just killed him instead of banishing him. He would never be in this situation if he’d just been executed.   
After seventy days he became enraged about all of the things he hadn’t gotten to do yet, and accepted that soon he was going to die. He beat his hands on the wall until they were bloody, and screamed until he was hoarse, and he gave up showering. His hair shagged into his eyes, and his beard was long and unkempt. He knew he didn’t have many food packets left, so he started rationing them. 

After eighty eight days, he ate his last food pack, and laid on the ground and screamed. The very last of the energy he had in himself, before he went and got the gun. He rested it on his chin for a long time before he had the courage to sit up, and place the barrel in his mouth. His hands were so sweaty that he had to set the gun down and wipe them before picking it up again. 

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. Tears streamed down his cheeks and absorbed into his rough beard, and he rubbed at his hard, rubbing dirt into his eyes. He hadn’t showered in weeks, and he’d stopped being able to smell how badly he stank. 

He lay on the floor until he was too tired of crying to continue, and sat back up with the gun, ready to pull the trigger now. There was no point waiting any longer, he put the barrel back in his mouth, and readied to pull the trigger. Letting out a scream, he steadied himself and pulled the trigger. The gun went off, and John Murphy died, slumping over the couch, just as the man on the TV shot himself. 

No one came to his rescue, and no one ever found him. John Murphy died, just as alone as he’d always lived, and he had no redemption. It was a fitting end for a young man that had lived most of his life as a bad person, and his list of things he’d wished he’d done had fallen off the couch with him, and gradually absorbed the blood as it leaked to the floor.


End file.
